Another Pretty Face
by Wintertime
Summary: Pre-series. "And I know what you all think of me - - I'm just another pretty face who got to where I am by sleeping with Catherine."


Another Pretty Face 

**Summary: **"And I know what you all think of me - - I'm just another pretty face who got to where I am by sleeping with Catherine."  Pre-series, and sadly (for me) AU.

**Disclaimer: **CBS owns CSI, Catherine, Greg, and the other miscellaneous characters.  3 Doors Down owns the lyrics at the beginning of the song.

******__

_If you could step into my head, tell_

_Me you would you still know me_

_If you woke up in my bed,_

_Tell me then would you hold me_

_Or would you simply let it lie,_

_Leaving me to wonder why_

_I can't get you out of this head_

****

**

Stanford boys, young and slim, cocky and sophisticated, paired up with tanned collegiate girls in tennis whites and shocking pink lipstick.  They all had gold bracelets with their initials engraved on them, and they all smiled at Catherine with the same polite interest as she walked by.  A few of them checked her out, and she felt their casual gaze on her curves.  She looked back at those ones, challenging them.  She wasn't a dancer anymore, after all, and even if she liked to be appreciated, she didn't want any stray eyes groping her when she was trying to work.  Besides, she had Eddie waiting at home to think about.

Not that Eddie had been home a lot himself, lately.

She checked in with the administration, putting on her prettiest smile.  "Catherine Willows, from the Las Vegas crime lab.  I called earlier."

The man across the counter nodded immediately.  He looked like an updated version of the boys outside - - just as neatly-coiffed and sun-shocked, only in a suit instead of khakis.  His smile was just as artificial as her own.  "I remember.  I'm Chris Selvster - - I'm the one who faxed you the list of the students who requested interviews."

"DNA tech job opens up, and everyone's scrambling to get it," she said, shifting her purse on her arm.  "Do you have a room where I could hold the interviews, or do you want me to move the applicants to my hotel?  There's a conference area that might work."

"That won't be necessary.  We have several available spots here."  Selvster moved with restless energy while he talked, pulling out a leather portfolio and flipping it open to show the same list of names she had in her purse.  Stanford had faxed it to the lab, and Brass had handed it over to Catherine with a shudder, telling her she better do the interviews, since he and Grissom were on a case.  Selvster's day-planner and fountain pen hit the desk in rhythmic disorder.  He ran his pen over the names.  "Twenty-five students.  You have a long day ahead of you, Ms. Willows."

"I'm used to long days."  Long nights, anyway.  Being up this much in daytime was different.  She'd forgotten how things looked in sunlight.

Selvster smiled at her, as if he didn't know quite what to make of that statement.  "I'll show you the room you'll be using, and then we can start directing the students inside."

He led her down a series of mazelike hallways, one after the other, until she was sure she'd be completely turned around and unable to find her way out.  He finally opened the door on a conference room - - small and dusty, painted in various shades of garish green and blue.  He motioned her inwards with a flourish, clearing off the main table and running a cursory hand over the chairs.  Catherine wondered how deep the coating of dust clinging to his fingers would be after that operation.  Her nose tickled and her throat itched, longing to sneeze but wanting to be polite.

Selvster rotated around the room, flicking on lights and probably killing a few stray cockroaches while he was at it.  Grissom would be pissed.  Catherine hid her smile in a cough.

"Will this work?"

"It's fine," she said, setting her purse down on the table and drawing out a notebook.  "If you could begin sending the students inside - - I'd like to start right away."

"Of course," Selvster said.  He looked like he couldn't wait to clear the room, but he directed one more glance her way before he did.  His eyes settled on her breasts.  "When you're done with the interviews, maybe I could take you out to dinner."

She said, "I'm married," and looked down at her finger.  Must have left the ring beside the shower this morning.  Maybe she'd get home before Eddie decided to give it to his latest girlfriend.

"Oh," he said, embarrassed.  "Fine."

"I'm sorry."

"No.  I was out of line.  I'll start phoning up the students.  You should have your first few in shortly."

She watched him bow out as gracefully as possible before she sat down.  She felt mean, like she'd snapped at him, even though she knew she'd been polite and right to refuse.  If that was the kind of documentation Brass was looking for, she could easily provide.  _Received dinner invitation from preppy admin.  Turned him down, but I don't really know why, since there doesn't seem to be a marriage to protect anymorel.  Not looking forward to seeing Selvster again._

She did nineteen interviews in quick succession that morning alone.  It didn't take her as long as she'd expected or even hoped.  They were good, but none of them were as qualified as the department wanted, and none of them seemed to disappointed by their cool reception.  They were all like the students outside - - confident that they would be able to turn the tables around on her someday, smiling snidely when she corrected them on their terminology, and thanking her for her time with vague, plastic smiles.  Selvster would have been a better pick for the job than any of the nineteen.

Her twentieth application was her lucky one. 

Greg Sanders was skinny as a toothpick, with a spray of sandy hair that seemed to stick up at impossibly sharp angles from his face.  He was eager, though, and refreshingly different after a day spent interviewing the other, more blasé students, so she shook his hand and ushered him into the seat across from hers.  She took in his loud, neon green shirt, his fraternity ring, and wondered what this kid could possibly offer her, other than a change in pace.

She made pleasant small-talk as she shifted through the papers on the desk and found his file, flipping it open.  He watched her, dark eyes intent, and he grinned as she made a soft O-shape with her mouth.  She pushed her lips together tightly.

"Top of your class."

"You're surprised," he said.  "Sorry I don't look the part."

"You can look however you want if you're going to present a transcript as impressive as this one."  He could, too.  His grades were exceptional and his recommendations outstanding.  She didn't have to read every word of his professor's notes to see that they held nothing short of glowing praise.  "We're quirky in Vegas.  Wardrobe shouldn't be a problem."

Sanders smiled at her.  He had a nice smile - - a centimeter or so past friendly.  He looked like a good kid.

Her calf itched suddenly.  She scratched it under the desk, her hand moving restlessly down the rough camel-colored fabric of her slacks.

"I can't say that you're not _academically _qualified, but grades aren't everything."

"I get that."

She thought he looked like the type to party.  She'd met Eddie at a party, not dancing, like a lot of people thought.  She danced with him there, and she could see from the way he looked at her that he wanted to know what she was like without her clothes on, not dreaming that two dozen men a night had a chance to find that out.  She took him home on their second date and told him the truth.  He'd kissed the inside of her wrist and promised her that he was a nice guy.

She'd been stupid enough to believe him.

Catherine regained her composure.  "There's a dead woman at the bottom of a flight of stairs.  We suspect the husband and bring you his DNA, along with the woman's clothes.  What do you do?"

His answer was quick.  "Search for his DNA on the woman's shirt, front or back, depending on how she landed.  If she landed face-first, search for the DNA on the back, if she landed on her back, search for DNA on the front of the shift, probably the shoulders.  However, she's more likely to have landed face-down, murder or not, because it looks more like an accident that way.  But since the presence of spousal DNA on the wife's clothing is understandable, it's not really an airtight solution.  You'd need better evidence."

"Very good.  Thinking outside the box."

"I like to pretend that there isn't a box.  If I could help with the investigation beyond just DNA matching and profiling, I'd like to."

Enthusiastic about his work.  Brass was pretty ambivalent towards a tech's attitude, but Grissom was the assistant supervisor, and he liked to work with people who enjoyed their jobs.  Always said that it made things easier.  Sanders looked like he'd like to make everything easier.

_What am I thinking?  He's a kid, for God's sake, no matter how smart he is.  A frat boy._

Sanders was still smiling.  He looked relaxed.  He looked like he knew what she wanted.

That damned itch on her calf was moving higher.

"We don't usually give fieldwork to our lab techs."

"I wasn't talking about fieldwork," he said quickly, "not that it wouldn't be cool.  I just mean - - I like to go the extra mile."

"That's a good quality to have."

His smile was turning into a grin.  "I've got a lot of good qualities, Ms. Willows."

Catherine edged away from that conversation and focused on the questions.  She had a list.  It was rote, and easy.  She worked her way through a series of scenarios, and Sanders answered each one flawlessly - - and then some.  "Extra mile," he reminded her when she commented on it.  "And I'm impressing you, right?"  She nodded and resisted an answer.  A trickle of sweat was on the inside of her wrist, near the cheap silver bracelet that Eddie had given her for an anniversary present the year before he started sleeping around.  There hadn't been an anniversary present this year.  They both knew that things were almost over between them.

"I'm going to have to be honest - - you're the best applicant I've had."

"I like to please," he said.

_I'll bet you do._

"But I have to ask if you mind relocation.  You'd have to come to Las Vegas, obviously, and if that's some kind of a problem - -"

He leaned across the table, his face showing intensity for the first time during the interview.  The playful smile was gone, replaced by a penultimate seriousness.  "I asked for the interview, Ms. Willows.  This job is all I've ever wanted since I was a kid."

_You're still a kid._

"Call me Catherine," she said.  "Since we're going to be working together."

His face broke out in relief.  "I've got the job?"

She nodded.  "I can't imagine wanting anyone else."  _What am I saying to him?  _"Let me just make a phone call to my boss and tell him that I found someone.  You graduate with the rest of your class, right?  In just a week?"

"In a week, yeah, and then I'll be over, I promise."  He was nothing but sincere.

If she slept with him now, would she be able to forgive herself?

Hell, would she be able to forgive herself even if she kissed him?

He was just a kid.

She was already dancing when she was his age.

"Let me make that phone call," she repeated to fill the silence.  "And then I'll have to talk to Administrator Selvster and tell him - -"

Greg snickered.  "How did you like Sylvester?"

Her hand on the mouthpiece, she paused.  "Sylvester?"

He looked suddenly embarrassed, as if he'd made a mildly unforgivable faux pas.  "Sylvester - - is what everyone calls Admin Selvster.  He's always chasing after all the women on staff - - you know the kind of guy, always two steps from a harassment suit.  He went after one of the French professors, and since she was already nicknamed Tweety, the joke was begging to be made.  Um, in someone's opinion."  
  


_Always chasing after all the women on staff.  Guess you were just one of many.  And you thought he was polite.  What kind of a judge are you, though?  Married to Eddie Willows and getting offers from a guy whose students call him Sylvester._

_What makes you think this kid is any different?_

"I get it," she said.  "He looks like a Sylvester to me, too."

Greg flashed her that brilliant smile again, relieved that she hadn't chosen to take offense.  Catherine inwardly calculated the odds on the kid having a nickname for everyone in the lab by the end of his first week.  She wondered what Grissom would make of him.

"Did he try to put the moves on you?"

That was something she'd never been asked before.  She responded with a particularly inarticulate, "Huh?"

"Sylvester.  Did he try to get a date with you?"  He seemed to be evaluating her expression and he held up his hands.  "I'm not trying to be rude - - I'm just asking, because you look like the kind of woman who probably has someone waiting at home."  Catherine couldn't decide if he was trying to make up for his unprofessional jibe at Sylvester (_Selvster_, she reminded herself, if she got that stuck in her head, she was liable to get it wrong when she talked to him again) or if he was genuine.  "I can't see you as someone who'd have a problem with that."

Genuine.  As in, genuinely trying to give her a compliment.

Or maybe he just wanted her.  Maybe he was just more charming than Selvster.

_I'm married._

"There's no one," she said aloud.

It was the first time she'd lied in a while.  She was still good at it.

She dialed Brass and got Grissom instead.  Not a surprise, as he'd been playing acting supervisor almost all week.  The first thing he said was, eagerly, "You got my guy?"

_I got MY guy, actually, because he's a flirt and it's a little too late to pretend that I wasn't flirting back, since I just lied and told him I was single._

"Yeah."

"A keeper?"

"Definitely.  He knows his stuff."

Greg was fiddling with a pencil sharpener and looked up to smile at her.

"Good," Grissom said.  "Can he get here in a week?"

"He can indeed."

"I like this kid already.  Tell him I'll buy him a drink when he comes to Vegas - - I'm sick to death of this temporary tech."

"Very professional, Gil."

_Who am I kidding?  I'm the one that's trying to pick up a college kid on a business trip._

"See you when you get back, Catherine."  He clicked his phone off, and she shook her head wistfully at hers as she closed it.  She turned another glance at Greg, who was acquainting himself with the flotsam on her desk, shifting through the mess of papers and making occasional comments as he toyed with a rubber eraser and a stiff, unused blotter.

He didn't look a day older than twenty-five, what with his messy hair and innocent doe eyes.

Well, no one was truly innocent anymore.  She'd learned that even if she'd learned nothing else.

"Why don't we celebrate?" she asked, flicking a honey-colored strand of hair out of her eyes.  "Grissom said he'd buy you a drink when you got to Vegas - - he's not too fond of the guy we've got working there now - - but we don't have to wait for that."

"Sure," he said.  Did he know what she was asking him?  "Do you want drinks or dinner?"

He knew.

"Whatever you want."

"No, whatever _you_ want."

Well, since he insisted - - yeah, he definitely knew.

"Drinks will be fine," she said.  "Do you know a place?"

He laughed.  It sounded a little self-conscious.  "Nowhere classy," he said.  "Mostly just frat parties - - and I wouldn't want to take you to one of those."

Eddie had never even implied that she was better than anything.  He had thought that he was what she deserved, and never suggested that she might have class.  She had the feeling that even if she told Greg that she worked as a stripper, he'd still pick somewhere classy for their date.

_Not that it's really a date.  It's a more a means to an end._

"The bar at my hotel is nice," she said, swallowing hard.  "We could get something there."

"That's fine," he said.  His eyes didn't even drop to her breasts the way Sylvester's had.  For a second, she doubted if he did understand.  Then his hand brushed against her wrist.  His fingers were warm, and they slid over the cheap silver bracelet.  His face was flushed.  "Fine."

He wasn't just talking about drinks anymore.

_What am I getting myself into?_

"Can we go now?"

"Sure."  She lifted her purse from the table.  Its weight was all slick leather heat in her hand.  "I just have to tell Sylvester that I'm done using his room."

Greg snorted.  "You called him Sylvester."

"Shit, I knew I wasn't going to be able to get that out of my head."  She didn't want to return his smile, but it was infectious.  She grinned back at him.  "Maybe I should just call him sir.  Or maybe you should tell him."

"What makes you think I'm going to keep his names straight?"

"Selvster, Selvster, Selvster," she said quickly.  "Do you think I've got it?"

"I don't know.  What's his name, again?"

"Sylvester.  Dammit."

"Maybe we could just play hooky," Greg said teasingly.  "You could come back in the morning and tell him that you have a couple more interviews to do - - look over your last five people, and then I'll take you out for breakfast, to make sure you didn't forget that you already promised me the job."

_Extra points for the breakfast invitation._

"Sure," she said.  "We'll play hooky."

She stared down at the bracelet.  No wedding ring on her today, nothing to show Greg that she had lied.  Just a cheap silver bracelet without even a turquoise stone.  She wouldn't have minded if they'd been struggling then, but he could have afforded better.  He probably bought better things for his girlfriends.

He loved Lindsay - - but he didn't love her.

_Turnabout's fair play_, she told herself when Greg ran his thumb over the back of her wrist again, just underneath the bracelet.  She shivered a little.  _It's not like he knows that we're doing anything wrong.  He's a sweet kid.  He'll find someone, no problem.  He's not going to regret this._

_But I am._

"Let's go," she said.

**

They both had beer.  Nothing fancy.  She kissed him after their third drink, blood pounding in her ears, taking the initiative.  She had to remember that she'd started this.  He kissed her back, of course.  A little inexpertly, but she reminded herself that he was younger.  He tasted like his drink, and underneath that, sweet cola and peppermint.  Her room was on the fourth floor and she couldn't keep her hands off him in the elevator, so she was glad it was empty.  Her mind was empty, leaving everything to skin.  This was payback for the time Eddie came home smelling like floral perfume.  This was payback for when he came home late at night, sloppily drunk, with lipstick smeared on his ear.

_I'm using him_.

She couldn't make herself care.

In her room, Greg stopped when he was unbuttoning her blouse.  His free hand stroked her cheek.  He was trying to be tender.  She laughed, because he seemed so serious about it, like he'd learned foreplay from a book and was carefully trying to make it good for her.

"Don't worry about that," she said.  "I'm ready."

She closed her eyes as they fell against the bed.

_I'm using him._

She hoped she had one hell of a hangover in the morning.  Maybe she could tell herself that she'd been wasted, and that she hadn't really wanted this.

**

Greg kissed her in the morning to wake her.  She fumbled into light and almost said, "Eddie?" but stopped herself just in time, her husband's name bit back behind her teeth.  He was in his boxers, moving around the hotel room, straightening the sheets.  He smiled at her.  Guilt thudded behind her temples, fierce and more lasting than any hangover.

Sweet kid.  She'd taken him for all he was worth.

"I've got to go back today, you know," she said.

He nodded.  "Do I get to see you again in Vegas?"

She didn't want to see what he'd come up with.  He looked like the kind of guy who'd leave a dozen roses on her desk.  She thought about what Grissom would say if he found out.  She felt a sudden burst of anger at that - - it wasn't like Grissom hadn't had a fling of his own with a college student once, a long time ago.  It wasn't like screwing that girl from Harvard when he was supposed to be doing a lecture wasn't breaking the rules, too.  "Greg - -"

Something in her eyes must have told him, because he dropped the remote he was fiddling with.

"Oh," he said.  "I _don't _get to see you again in Vegas."

"I'm sorry."

"You have someone waiting at home after all?"

He was being nicer than she deserved.

"It's on the rocks," she said, being truthful.  "He's sleeping around."

Greg bit his lip and nodded.  "So I was your payback?  Do I really even get the job?"

"Of course you do," she said quickly.  "You're more than qualified.  I wouldn't take that away from you, ever.  That has nothing to do with this."

"I thought people were supposed to have affairs in Vegas," he said.  "Not run away from Vegas to have affairs."  He turned his back and started getting dressed.

"I'm sorry, Greg," she said again.

"No, it's okay.  I was your drunken one-night stand.  You don't want any commitment.  What kind of guy would I be if I said I didn't like that?"  He yanked on one sock with a brutal twist.  His toe split the end.  She could see it from her place on the bed.  "I just thought you were beautiful, that's all," he said.  "I wouldn't have even come up if you hadn't asked.  I would've taken you out again."

Yeah.  He would've.  She knew that.  It was still pointless to apologize again.

"I hope your boss doesn't have the same plan when he asks me out for drinks."

She stifled a laugh.  "No.  I don't think he will."  She slowly pulled her on clothes on, matching him motion for motion.  When she had her bra fastened and shirt on again, she turned around to face him.  "Listen, let me buy you breakfast."  
  


Greg shook his head.  "Way better to end this quickly," he said.  "And don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

She said it again, the words pulling out of her involuntarily, "Greg, I _am _sorry."

"Don't worry about it."  His smile looked almost genuine that time.  "I get it.  It's fine.  Hey - - if things don't work out - - I still think you're beautiful.  Do you think I'd have a chance?"

He was a kid, yeah, but she couldn't care about that.

"You've already got one," she said honestly.

She walked by him.  He didn't stop her.  But she saw his reflection in the mirror on the door, and he was smiling at her.

**

He smiled at her again on his first day, and she blushed.  Maybe he would be the one to give them away, not her.  She worked all night and had Warrick take their cases to the DNA lab, even though she told herself that she wasn't avoiding Greg.  He came back to her with a grin on his face and told her that he liked the new guy, that he seemed nice.  Grissom asked her to come with them for drinks after shift to welcome Greg to the staff, but she said no.  Had to get home to Lindsay.  She didn't mention Eddie, and Grissom dutifully didn't ask.

He was kissing some girl on the couch when she got home.

That was the night she left him for good.

She dropped Lindsay off at her sister's and burned rubber to the bar where she knew Grissom and the rest of the team would take Greg.  She wiped her tears away, applied new lipstick in the car, and ran a hand through her hair.  Inside, she gave a vague explanation and wedged herself between Greg and Nick.  When he handed her a drink, his eyes were steady.

They watched football and drank beer.  Midway through a commercial about skin cream, she excused herself to go to the bathroom, and whispered to Grissom on the way out:

"I left Eddie."

He nodded almost imperceptibly.  "Good," he said, quietly enough so that only she could hear.

She didn't cry in the bathroom, but looked in the mirror for a long time.  She scrubbed a layer of makeup off her face and splashed herself with cold water.  She came back into the main room, directed an "I'm fine" smile at Grissom, and sat back down.

Greg put his hand on her knee.  It was under the table, so no one else saw.

She flinched.  Grissom was watching the screen, and Nick had moved to get more beer.  Warrick was chatting with a smiling blonde at the other end of the bar.

"I'm not going to let you forget me," he said from behind his other hand.  "You said I've got a chance, right?  And that things are ending?  Well, I'm taking my chances."

He lifted his touch away from her when Nick and Warrick came back, and made idle chitchat.  She found out that he used to live in New York, and that he liked Marilyn Manson.  She found out that she missed the warmth of his skin against hers.

It wasn't love, but it was close.

**

She stopped by in the lab the next time she worked solo and gave him a quick briefing on what he needed to do with her samples.

"They're on the top of my list," he said.  "Word by the water cooler is that you left your husband."

She would never find out how the hell things like that got around.  She knew Grissom wouldn't have told anyone about it.

"Yeah, I did."

"So can I take you out for coffee sometime?"  His smile was as brilliant as she remembered.  "We never did get a chance to have breakfast together, you know."

Catherine sighed.  Good thing the door was closed.  She ran a hand through her hair and leaned against the table.  "Greg, there are a thousand other women in this city you could chase after - - "

"You're the only one I want," he said sincerely.

They had coffee.  It came with eggs and strips of peppered bacon.  He kissed her in front of the window, and everyone could see.  It felt exhilarating.

"Do I get to see you again?"

She pressed her address into his hand when the waitress brought the check.

**

Greg met Lindsay the second time he came by the house.  Catherine had difficulty explaining Greg to her, and finally settled for saying, "This is Mommy's friend, sweetie."  Lindsay seemed to buy it with no trouble - - she gave Greg a sweet, disinterested smile and went back to coloring in front of the television.  Greg watched her for a moment - - a little girl in her pink pajamas, doodling aimless circles on a sheet of paper.  Catherine studied his face for a reaction.  No matter what happened between her and Greg, it was most important to know what he thought about Lindsay.

"She's got your hair," he said finally.

The next time he showed up, he brought _The Lion King_ and patted Lindsay's back when she cried during the death scene.  Catherine sent Lindsay up to bed at eight-thirty and kissed Greg gently.

"What's that for?"

"You're unbelievable," she said.  "And I'm in love with you."  She waited then, as she had during his meeting with Lindsay, for his reaction.

"Good," he said.  "I love you, too.  Want to watch _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_?"

**

Grissom was the first person she told.  She and Greg had been together for a year, and since Grissom was the supervisor, she thought that he might need to know.  Interpersonal relations in the office, and everything.  Besides, he was her friend.  She probably should have told him sooner - - she just didn't know how, and she still didn't.

She was wrapping up the explanation of her solo case to him.  "I traced the fibers on the knife to the husband's jacket, and then he confessed."

"Good.  Good job."  He was glaring at a pile of paperwork.

"I'm sleeping with Greg Sanders."

"That's good," he said absently, and then looked up.  "Excuse me?"

She very patiently repeated herself.

"_DNA _Greg Sanders?" he said wonderingly.  "May I ask when this started happening?"

She told him that it had been over a year, skipping the fact of their first time in her hotel room.  That was more than he wanted to know and more than she wanted to admit to.  Besides, Greg had honestly earned his position, and the last thing she wanted to do was take it away from him.

Grissom had the expression on his face that she had learned, over the years, indicated that he didn't understand, really, but was willing to go with it.

"I hope the two of you are happy," he said.

She smiled.  "We are."

She caught him, a week later, giving Greg a stern lecture on how, if ever hurt her, he was going to have to pay for it.  She hid her smile in her hand.

"You told Grissom?" Greg asked when they went home.  "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad that we aren't keeping this a secret, but - - do I need to fear for my life?  I'm sure that he knows all kinds of fun ways to kill me without leaving a messy crime scene."

"He's my friend," she said.  "He said the same thing to Eddie."

He kissed her before they got out of the car, just a quick press of his lips to her cheek.  He still smelled like peppermint and cola.  "I'm not Eddie."

"No," Catherine said.  "You're not."

And she didn't regret this at all.  She'd been right, when she looked over a kid at Stanford a year ago and decided that he looked like the kind of guy who would stick around.

~finis


End file.
